what's the harm
in dashing off
short novels
when images
spike,
titles stir
and spiral
stair to cloudy
heavens
turn,
I glance at
sky
expecting rain,
sun alone,
pulsing,
day after day,
and soon
another week,
another month,
gone,
I need to find the lock
and pound out
the keys,
why can't I
get this pen going
when I've got
the damn line?--
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